


Protection Racket

by renn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:10:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solo and Kuryakin have their work cut out for them in guarding a loud-mouthed, self-centered teenager girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protection Racket

**Author's Note:**

> Written for przed for the Down the Chimney Affair #4 (2007) over on LiveJournal.

“Good morning, Mr. Solo,” the doorman greeted as he opened the back door to the Lincoln Continental.  
  
“Morning, Harvey. How goes the war?” Napoleon Solo slid out of the back seat, smoothing a wrinkle out of his light grey jacket as he stood. He reached back in for a fancy, tied box from a well-known Manhattan bakery.  
  
“Word has it there’s a major confrontation brewing in the near future, unless a détente can be reached.” Harvey slammed shut the door.  
  
Solo smiled bemusedly. “I can tell I will need all my diplomatic skills this morning.” He glanced around with a practiced nonchalance. The streetscape seemed unexceptional—a nanny pushing a baby carriage, a driver hustling a pair of uniformed school-aged girls into the back of a Cadillac, several business men hurrying out of their buildings with briefcases in hand and eyes on their watches. Still, just because the sun was shining brightly, highlighting the already-turning leaves on the few trees that decorated the block, didn’t mean that the black cloud of Thrush wasn’t lurking nearby.  
  
Harvey noted the senior agent’s observation. “The only feathered friends in the area that we know of are the pigeons that nearly took out Mr. Waverly’s hat yesterday evening.”  
  
“Let’s hope it stays that way.” With a nod, Solo headed for the entrance. Harvey hustled to open the door for him, ushering him inside with a tip of the hat.  
  
Solo glanced around the lobby, smiled at the pretty Section III redhead who was serving as building concierge that morning, and ducked into the first available elevator car. He pressed the “3” button, humming under his breath as the car ascended to the requested floor. The doors opened; Solo stepped out, barely starting a greeting to the agent on hall duty before a loud crash prompted both men to reach for their weapons. Another crash followed the first; a muffled, girlish diatribe emphasizing the mood of the young lady inside the apartment. The hall monitor sighed and tucked his P-38 back in its holster. “She’s at it again, the little brat.”  
  
“A day without one of Nancy’s tantrums is a day without a threat to the free world.” Solo also put his weapon away. He then straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and entered the battlefield disguised as a luxury apartment.  
  
“I don’t care how much that cost, you stupid commie! It’s ugly, and so are you!” Fourteen-year-old Nancy Barretta stomped her foot and tossed her head, flipping her dark brown hair over her shoulder before glaring at Solo's partner. Illya Kuryakin merely glared back at her, eyebrow raised.  
  
Solo took in the scene. Tsking loudly, he picked up a shard of the antique vase and examined it. "We'll have to add this to your tab, Nancy. How many priceless things destroyed does that make?"  
  
"Thirteen," Illya said. "Not counting the ripped-up clothes, naturally."  
  
"Naturally."  
  
Nancy stuck her tongue out at Solo. "I don't have a tab, buddy. My daddy says you're lucky he's even cooperating with you guys! So anything I might do, you gotta pay for-- you know, keep him happy by keeping me happy. Which you haven't done yet, you know. I've been here three loooooooooooooong days, and--"  
  
"Actually, you've been here 57 hours. That's hardly three days," Kuryakin informed her. "Perhaps if you had paid more attention in your maths class, you could have spared yourself-- and us-- this horror."  
  
"You stupid dirty commie! My daddy says--"  
  
"Actually," Napoleon interrupted, "Your daddy said that your favorite breakfast is jelly donuts." He held up the bakery box incitingly.  
  
The hostility melted from Nancy's face. "Jelly donuts? For me?" she sighed contentedly. "I never get 'em at home. Well, except on the weekends. To have them on a Wednesday… wow! Serve them up, will you?" She trotted into the dining room and seated herself at the table, looking at the agents expectantly.  
  
"If you get the plates and milk, I'll get the coffee going," Solo said.  
  
"Anything to be away from her," Kuryakin agreed.  
  
The two agents puttered about the kitchen for a few moments, the Russian gathering place settings and a bottle of milk while his partner set the percolator going. Solo could tell Illya didn't want to vent quite yet, so he held his tongue as well. Instead, he allowed himself to ruminate on the current assignment.  
  
He and Illya had been stuck with protecting Nancy simply because April and Mark were still in Bali, and Mr. Waverly required high-ranking agents to protect the young lady. Her father, a well-to-do Chicago businessman with suspicious ties to the Mob, had been utilizing Nancy to pass financial information disguised as algebra homework to his uncle, who had obvious ties to the Mob. Thrush became involved when the financials racked up enough profit to make it a viable source of funding. In their infinite wisdom, though, they thought Nancy was actually generating the numbers instead of just copying them. Her father agreed to help flush out Thrush as long as his "princess" was suitably guarded while he did so.  
  
Since she was a "princess," she certainly couldn't be watched over in some boring, sterile environment like U.N.C.L.E. HQ. Oh, no, she needed fancy surroundings and the finest food. Mr. Barretta lobbied for the Plaza or the Ritz or the Waldorf (if necessary); he agreed to a luxurious upper-bracket apartment only when it was made clear that his daughter would be much, much safer in it.  
  
Personally, Solo thought that Nancy's father made the arrangements just so he wouldn't have to deal with his little "princess" for a few days.  
  
Kuryakin returned to the dining room first; by the time he reached the table, Nancy had been served both food and milk, and Kuryakin sprawled in the seat across from her, looking as petulant as the girl liked to act. He had two donuts on his plate, but only flicked sugar off the tops.  
  
Solo sighed. As usual, it was up to him to make the best of a crap assignment. He grabbed a plate and a donut, posing with the latter as if preparing to take a bite out of it. "Ich bein ein Berliner!" he announced.  
  
"Not yet, but you will be if you eat too many of those," Kuryakin commented.  
  
Nancy looked confused. "But I thought you were Italian, like me!"  
  
"It's a play on words."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"In some parts of Germany, a 'Berliner' is a jelly donut."  
  
"Oh. Oh! That's funny. I think."  
  
With that, conversation-- such as it was-- ground to a halt. They ate in silence. Solo eventually brought in coffee; Nancy tried to get a cup, but Solo claimed it would ruin her complexion. Surprisingly, she accepted the denial at face value and contented herself with paging through the latest issue of Vogue while the agents sipped at their java.  
  
Eventually, though, Nancy got bored. And when she got bored, she got talkative. "Sooooo…. Mr. Solo. When can I get sprung from here? It's such a draaaaaaag being cooped up in this teeny apartment. There's a whole city out there waiting for me to explore, you know. So far, all I've seen is a plane and a room and a car and a room and a room and a room."  
  
"Oh, and quoting from _A Hard Day's Night_ defines your sophistication, of course," Kuryakin commented.  
  
"I wasn't quoting, I was paraphrasing." Nancy folded her arms across her chest.  
  
"Sure, Illya, you should know better. How can you hope to infiltrate and take over if you can't get your pop cultural references right?"  
  
Kuryakin gave his partner a look of doom. "As if you've even seen the film."  
  
"I leave that kind of base entertainment for dirty commies like yourself." Ignoring Illya's glower, he turned his full charm on in Nancy's direction. "Ah, Miss Barretta. I apologize again for the inconvenience. Your father, however, should be done helping us out some time this evening. So, the rest of the week you two will be able to play tourist to your heart's content-- on U.N.C.L.E.'s dime, of course."  
  
"I should think so."  
  
"In the meantime, though, I've arranged for a selection of wares to be brought up later this morning for your perusal."  
  
"Wares?" Nancy made a face. "Like, what? Toys? Clothes? Jewelry? That kind of thing?"  
  
"Exactly. We have reps from Macy's, Gimbel's, Berghoff-Goodman…."  
  
"Oh, yes, all your quaint little boutiques you have here in New York." She sighed. "I suppose they're all right, but, really, none of them can hold a candle to Marshall Field's."  
  
"Gimbel's is a _boutique_?" Kuryakin exclaimed.  
  
Solo gave his partner a "Do you believe her" look before continuing, "Oh, yes, you know, we're just a poor, little cosmopolitan city. Can't hold a candle to the Meatpacker of the World…."  
  
"New York is full of poor people and old money. You know, people who sit on their butts all day doing pretty much nothing. The people of Chicago, on the other hand, know what it's like to work for a living."  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"It's not like I'm ignorant! I go to New Trier High School! We have rich _and_ poor there!"  
  
Solo smirked. "Really?"  
  
"Really." After another moment of his amused grin, she added, "Oh, all right, rich and _middle class._ Same thing, really."  
  
Kuryakin groaned. "Are you really this stupid, Miss Barretta, or is it some grand act?"  
  
"You dirty commie!" She dove for the coffee pot; both agents hurriedly pushed their chairs back and fled the dining area.  
  
At that moment, the main apartment door burst open. The hall guard, weapon drawn, motioned toward the kitchen. "They're on to us. We're going to have to use the escape route."  
  
"Right." Solo dove for Nancy, forcing the coffee pot out of her grip. Kuryakin grabbed her by her free hand and dragged her into the kitchen.  
  
"Let go of me, you stupid commie!"  
  
"I am trying to save your life, you stupid girl!" He shoved her into the pantry, then grabbed a commercial-quality laundry bag off the shelf and jammed it over her head. She struggled; he ignored it, even when she got a good kick in. Once the bag reached her feet, he flung her over his shoulder, adjusting the straps with one hand as he used the other for balancing.  
  
"Ready?" Solo, having quickly donned a coverall, slouch hat, and fake pair of glasses, appeared in the doorway.  
  
"Let me go, you dirty commie! When my daddy hears about this, you're gonna be in biiiiiig trouble!" The bag did nothing to muffle Nancy's screech.  
  
"Here! With good riddance!" Kuryakin transferred his charge to his partner, then scurried ahead to open the back door.  
  
Another agent, kitted out similarly to Solo, already awaited. "The van awaits, sir."  
  
"Thanks." Solo exchanged a glance with his partner. "See you back at HQ, Illya." He adjusted the squirming weight on his shoulder, hissed at the girl to be quiet if she valued living, and trotted down the stairs.  
  
Kuryakin closed the door with a heartfelt sigh. The laundryman agent, shrugging out of his disguise, gave him a sympathetic smile. "We all feel bad about your assignment, sir."  
  
"It could have been worse."  
  
"Really? How?"  
  
"You don't want to know. Especially not first hand." Kuryakin returned to the living room.  
  
The hall guard stood ready to report. "All's secure, Mr. Kuryakin. Our ground patrol took out all sixteen Thrush with a minimum of property or personnel damage."  
  
"Good. Get the clean-up crew in here. I want a precise accounting of everything broken or otherwise damaged. Despite what Miss Barretta believes, there will be some consequence for her behavior." He looked around the room one last time, added, "I will be returning to Headquarters," and strolled out of the apartment.  
  
An elevator car awaited. He nodded curtly to the Section III woman playing concierge, then pushed open the door to the outside.  
  
Harvey tipped his hat to him. "Call you a car, Mr. Kuryakin?"  
  
He considered the offer. The warm sun, clear sky, and relative quiet of the neighborhood tempted him to walk the several dozen blocks back to H.Q. He also saw great advantage in arriving a great deal after Miss Barretta did. But, unfortunately, duty called, and really, Napoleon would need the backup. "Yes, thanks, Harvey." He leaned against the building doorjamb and waited for his transport to arrive.


End file.
